wesleynotponcy: (neg: angst)
Since his visit to Kennedy's last month, Wesley had thought a lot about trying to resume helping the helpless as best he could without being a part of the Angel Investigations team, but he hadn't been able to motivate himself just yet. For the most part, he'd found himself sticking to his time-honored solution for dealing with conflict, which was, of course, alcohol.

Then tonight - not that he could name what day of the week it was, or even confidently identify the time of day - there was a knock on his door.

There were plenty of people who it could theoretically be, only some of whom wanted to kill him, but Wesley didn't get his hopes up for anyone good. )

[[taken from angel 3x19 "the price." nfb/nfi.]]
wesleynotponcy: (neg: at my very worst)
Wesley had only ever really had one coping mechanism. Just one, and not a very good one, either.

It involved sitting and drinking expensive scotch in the dark. It wasn't healthy, but it was what he did.

He had never considered that it might be interrupted by someone knocking on the door, though; for a brief moment, he thought of Karla, and the time she'd interrupted his grief over the Hunger Games. That was ridiculous, though. No one was going to do that now. Not unless it was Charles coming up to ask him to find someplace else to live from now on.

The voice wasn't Gunn's, though. It was Fred's.

''Wesley? Wesley, it's me.'' )

[[last one from 3x06 "billy." OW OW OW.]]
wesleynotponcy: (neg: slumped messy room)
It was afternoon. Or maybe it was morning. Or night, even. Wesley hadn't moved since coming to his room in the first place yesterday after finishing watching the Games, at which point he'd slumped onto the floor with a bottle of scotch and proceeded to down what felt like most of it. His head lolled back against the bed behind him. 

Everything hurt. Just -- less, with the fuzzy outline that alcohol gave everything. He wasn't moving.

[[for she who knows who she is! NFB, please.]]

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February 2015

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